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hennessysTitle: Odalisque
Rating: R
Summary: Harry and Miranda don't like each other, but they can at least work together.
Notes: Yes, this is canon. No, I don't know what Miranda is talking about.
"It isn't a question of what you want," Miranda says. She's still lounging on the bed, naked, one long leg propped up and the other foot dangling. "It's whether you believe you can have it."
Pretentious bitch. Harry checks his shirt in the mirror; wouldn't do to walk out with mismatched buttons. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Miranda smiles, a thin-lipped expression with absolutely no humor. "It doesn't matter."
You wouldn't understand, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway, and his own lips go thin.
She always says that, or at least means it. Sometimes Harry wonders why she even bothers with him if she thinks she's so much better. The business hardly requires them to be sexually involved, though it is a good cover.
It doesn't matter. They are sexually involved, if only occasionally, and snobbish or not she's still incredibly arousing. He'll fuck the smugness out of her next time.
For now, there's work to be done. "Do you have it?"
Miranda looks at him through her eyelashes, then indicates her purse with her foot. Harry crosses the room in a few steps and picks it up, rummaging through her wallet and tampons and makeup to find the small USB drive at the very bottom. "This?" he asks, holding it up.
"That," she confirms, and yawns delicately, putting the back of her hand to her mouth. "It should be everything you need."
It will be. Miranda has never failed them. "I'll be going, then," he says, slipping the USB drive into his pocket.
She doesn't reply, only yawns again and leans back on the bed, curving one arm over her head and resting the other beneath her breasts. She knows exactly what she looks like, he's sure of it; an odalisque on her divan, Ingres or Boucher with paintbrushes at the ready.
It's not an inappropriate analogy. Odalisques are whores, after all.
"You know how to reach me," he says, and leaves.
Rating: R
Summary: Harry and Miranda don't like each other, but they can at least work together.
Notes: Yes, this is canon. No, I don't know what Miranda is talking about.
"It isn't a question of what you want," Miranda says. She's still lounging on the bed, naked, one long leg propped up and the other foot dangling. "It's whether you believe you can have it."
Pretentious bitch. Harry checks his shirt in the mirror; wouldn't do to walk out with mismatched buttons. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Miranda smiles, a thin-lipped expression with absolutely no humor. "It doesn't matter."
You wouldn't understand, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway, and his own lips go thin.
She always says that, or at least means it. Sometimes Harry wonders why she even bothers with him if she thinks she's so much better. The business hardly requires them to be sexually involved, though it is a good cover.
It doesn't matter. They are sexually involved, if only occasionally, and snobbish or not she's still incredibly arousing. He'll fuck the smugness out of her next time.
For now, there's work to be done. "Do you have it?"
Miranda looks at him through her eyelashes, then indicates her purse with her foot. Harry crosses the room in a few steps and picks it up, rummaging through her wallet and tampons and makeup to find the small USB drive at the very bottom. "This?" he asks, holding it up.
"That," she confirms, and yawns delicately, putting the back of her hand to her mouth. "It should be everything you need."
It will be. Miranda has never failed them. "I'll be going, then," he says, slipping the USB drive into his pocket.
She doesn't reply, only yawns again and leans back on the bed, curving one arm over her head and resting the other beneath her breasts. She knows exactly what she looks like, he's sure of it; an odalisque on her divan, Ingres or Boucher with paintbrushes at the ready.
It's not an inappropriate analogy. Odalisques are whores, after all.
"You know how to reach me," he says, and leaves.
